That Time We Went to Istanbul

So as I was saying, like, a month ago, Alex and I went to Istanbul for the first time.  And I'm going to blog about it. 

The old part of the city, from across the Bosphorus

We arrived under dark wet skies, and at the wrong airport. Not just wrong in the sense that it was not Atatürk, where for some reason I thought we would land, but wrong in the sense that it was a million miles from our hotel in Kariköy. 

We found a well-appointed bus that took us down a crowded highway, stopping at neon-lit shopping centres along the way to let people out. There was a Burger King within sight of each bus stop, and also our little public transportation map from the airport was sponsored by Burger King and had a little logo to show every Burger King in town. Istanbul, brought to you by Burger King. 

We squinted through the raindrops on the window and tried to imagine how the hills and houses to the left and right would look in the summer, radiating heat. It was pretty hard to tell. 

Us. 

At the port in Kadiköy we picked our way through people and rain, and finally boarded a giant ferry. The main cabin was lit up like...well, like a Burger King, with comfortable but strictly functional seats that were not filled. Three young buskers started singing. A middle aged man sitting across from us fiddled with prayer beads and mumbled under his breath with his eyes closed. The ferry generated its own field of noise and light, and we rumbled placidly across the black water and black sky. We kept passing giant, grand mosques and I thought every single one was the Hagia Sophia. It felt like we were crossing the Styx in a jumbo jet. Alex and I were quiet and perfectly content, the way you are on the first day of a vacation in a brand new place, even if the sky is falling and your feet are wet. 

Fishing off the bridge is apparently an all-weather activity.

Our hotel was called The Vault, and it was beautiful. The whole building used to be a bank but had a recent and pretty lux restyling. We admired the view from our balcony and drank half a bottle of wine before heading off again. That night we ate fish in a nearby restaurant on the top of some other hotel on the waterfront, and looked out across a bustling bridge to the old part of the city. The mosques and buildings were lit so that the whole hillside looked like the altar of a church. We drank beer and we did not have to change any diapers or watch Elmo cartoons or fumble with a stroller. It was good. 

Trying not to shop.

In the morning, tourism happened. We went to the Spice Bazaar and the Grand Bazaar and overpaid for everything and wondered how so many people could make a living from selling little towers of roasted chestnuts. The bazaar, and basically a whole swathe of the old city is nothing but market, was filled with people. Deep-set shops with narrow storefronts were shoulder to shoulder up the entire hill, and the front of each store was hung with products from the ceiling to the floor. There were whole sections that sold nothing but underpants, or bedsheets, or knick-knacks. If a person is in need of, say, a headscarf, how the heck do they decide where to start looking? It was totally overwhelming. 

Over the next couple days, we visited the usual list of suspects. We went to the Hagia

Ayasofya, under construction.

Sophia and the Blue Mosque. At the Hagia Sophia we took a private tour, mostly because it meant we could cut the giant line. Our tour guide was a gregarious middle-aged man in a hat and sunglasses, and for the first fifteen minutes I despaired of ever making it into the building. He preferred to stand outside this grand old shamble and point in compass directions to give us a rundown of Istanbul/Turkish/Ottoman/Roman history, but in a sort of stream-of-consciousness fashion that led me to initially believe we had been swindled, not by a common crook but by a lunatic who actually thought he was a tour guide. 

More Hagia Sophia

"Over that way, some few hundred meters," he said, gesticulating toward a wall, "was where the emperors used to live and there were aquaducts that brought them water from here, where there are some hills" he said, pointing, "but have you heard of the University? You really must go, it is fascinating. It is over there. An amazing place, architecturally and historically! But anyway, just this way are the cisterns that collected the water from the aquaducts I just mentioned and the cisterns were built by the man who lived, like I said, over here but of course when Atatürk came to power over there, and he entered from this direction..." I was quite relieved when the call to prayer drowned him out for a few minutes. 

"Sorry," I said. "Does this tour actually take us inside the building? I'm quite keen to see it. It's just that you said the tour was thirty minutes long, and it's already been about twenty." 

My favorite.

"What? Of course we go inside," he said, a bit offended. "I'm just trying to provide information for background. We can go in."  

And then we passed through the enormous door into the interior. "This door," he said. "Touch it! Rub it! It is made of Noah's ark." And so we did. The tour actually turned out to be pretty wonderful--and lasted well over an hour. We had a rundown on the history of the building, and its partial restoration. He thoroughly covered the mythology surrounding various corners and pillars of the building, while still managing to transmit his very specific and occasionally alarming political views. 

("The Kurds will not have one. single. stone from our Ararat! Do you know about our beautiful mountain Ararat?" 

"Oh yes, isn't that where the Armenians--" 

"--Not one rock! We will die first!") 

At the end he gave us blessings, candy and his incredibly ornate if somewhat scrappy business card, which I politely inspected. 

"Wait, you speak Japanese?" I said. 

Hagia Sophia: the shitty bit. Seriously.
It was like they let the 11 year-old
apprentice do this wall.

He shrugged. "Yeah." 

As you'll know if you've been, the Hagia Sophia or Ayasofya was originally a Greek Orthodox church that became Roman Catholic and then again Orthodox, before becoming a mosque in the 15th century. Its mosque-ification involved painting over every single interior surface, because these had previously been (fairly glorious) mosaics of Christian figures and symbols. Of course, Islam forbade the representation of such things, not least the enormous and mystical looking representations of angels in the form of wheeling wings and eyes. Thus all of these majestic mosaics were painted over with okay-but-not-that-great patterns. Some of which have since been removed to show what was underneath. Overall, kind of meh, really. It is huge, enormous, and it kind of looks like the belly of an immense golden dragon, but one which is long dead and totally cold. It would look better if they'd restore all the mosaics (that would be something), or maybe just cover them up again--at the moment the place just looks like it has a skin disease. Which just goes to show that trying to make a banana into an apple is never going to be as awesome as just making an apple.  

Sultan Ahmet Mosque. So much wonderful.

The awesome apple, in this case, being the Sultan Ahmed Mosque (or Blue Mosque). Which was designed to be a mosque, is decorated as a mosque, and unlike the Ayasofya, which is a museum, actually continues to be a place of worship. Now THAT building knocked my damn socks off. Actually I had my socks on. We had our shoes off, though, like everyone else.  That building was astonishing from top to bottom, every tile and pattern perfect. A chandelier the size of my apartment hung in the centre. The whole space, which felt like an immense slice of sky captured in a jewelled box for the glory of God, resonated with the recitation of the Koran from the front of the building. It was moving and beautiful, tourist hordes notwithstanding. 

Amazing.

Alex and I also did some shopping. Actually, we did very little shopping and quite a lot of avoiding shopping, which was quite a feat. 

The shopkeepers in Istanbul's tourist area have really hit that date-rapey sweet spot between flattery, begging and outright bullying. For them, "no" just means "not yet". 

But at least many of them were funny. 

On one market street, a guy stepped out from his stall to block our path. "Spend your money," he demanded, without smiling. He pointed inside. "It is almost free! Just check."

One kid selling boat tours ran up to us on the street. "Hello hello! Romantic boat tour! Just like the Titanic!," he said, brandishing a flyer. "But without sinking." 

"Sie sprechen Deutsch? Ich auch! Ich bin in Stuttgart aufgewachsen! Ich sag es Ihnen, unser Lokum ist von der höchsten Qualität. Ohne Scheiss. Es ist tipp-topp."

The man who did end up with our money was a carpet salesman. We spent two seconds in his window and, without really knowing what happened, were sitting on cushions being given a broad rundown of carpet-making styles, techniques and regions in Turkey.

The cistern.

"Hey, can I get you some tea?" asked the young man, who spoke truly excellent English. "I'll get you some tea." He gestured to someone to bring us tea. 

"Well, now we are screwed, Alex," I said, jokingly. "This guy has trapped us good."

"No, no. Not trapped," said the young man, smiling as he calmly unfolded a rug on the floor. "We call it "Magic of the Grand Bazaar". Now. Do you like these colors, or something brighter? " 

On our last full day we took a boat tour of the Bosphorus. Because we did zero prior research and slept late, we missed the public ferry and had to select from among a number of dodgy private tours. The one we went with was probably no worse than any other. 

It really was "wonderful".

What was bad was that the heavens opened and unleashed all their fury on us the minute we left the pier, forcing us and our 15-ish fellow passengers to scurry under the deck. The boat pitched left and pitched right. Within three minutes there were a few people who looked like they were going to hurl. The windows fogged up so badly that we couldn't see out. The most motivated among us spent the whole time wiping them down with our sleeves, just so we could more clearly see the wall of fog and water hammering the sea. I compared the view (of nothing) to my brochure, which indicated that we were passing diverse sites of historical and architectural interest. We couldn't stop laughing offensively. 

The good news is, it stopped raining after half an hour. The skies cleared, birds soared. We climbed out onto the deck and felt pretty lucky to be looking at anything at all. 

And I'm going to go ahead and declare The End, because this was so long I've probably lost most everyone by now anyway. 

xxx

The boat after the rain.

Happy New Year! Part 2

In the years since 1999, that long-anticipated apex of balls-to-the-wall party ecstasy, my own New Year's tendencies have - on the whole - shifted away from glitter and alcoholic excess. My problem is that I can no longer be both drunk and awake for longer than three hours, and a proper big night out on New Year's is all about endurance. 

One year ago at the Grand Canyon, where it was cold.

I tend to start out with a lot of vim and then fizzle out. Last year is not a bad example. Alex and I were at the Grand Canyon. I was pregnant and therefore not drinking, which was too bad, since we went to a so-called New Year's "party" that just begged for six or seven colourful and umbrella'd beverages in quick succession. We'd been lured in by a pretty girl in red lipstick and six-inch glitter heels who promised live music and steak, and by the fact that there was literally nothing else to do of this 0°F evening up at old Grand Canyon Village. 

I was lucky enough to visit Israel and Palestine
at work. I travelled with some amazing people, and I met
some amazing people while we were there.
A highlight of my year. This photo taken in Gaza city, Feb. 2013.

Inside the restaurant was a motley crew of couples and families stranded in the snow for the new year, along with one big table of super-drunk French people whom everyone secretly envied because they were actually having fun. A middle-aged woman at the table beside us got so hammered that her utterly disgusted husband had to take her home by about 10pm. I did, in fact, nurse one blue cocktail all night long in an unsuccessful effort to feel festive. It was served in a small glass boot for some punny reason I can't remember. The friendly couple we shared a table with seemed to be having fun, but of course excessive vodka consumption will do that to you. 

Our  room at the Grand Canyon featured - true story - this complimentary
paper towel and a "fresh remote." I'm just putting this photo up to make you jealous. 

Alex and I ended up laughing all night, but mostly at the epic mediocrity, from the obscene cost to the skimpy and poorly-timed meal (bland, but at least there wasn't much of it), to the scrappy but charming band that failed to rouse anyone to dance. The best part was the sweetly crappy cardboard diversions heaped glittering on each table: squawkers and confetti and silly hats. 

Got to marry this guy at the most spectacular
unwedding ever, which ain't bad at all.

Anyway, we managed to sit through this interminable party until midnight, at which point we kissed, toasted our soon-to-be firstborn, announced our undying affection for each other, and left. Back at our only slightly shabby hotel, we watched Storage Wars for a little bit before turning in. 

In principle, though, I fully support the near-universal and deeply religious ritual of boozing in the New Year, and so THIS year I was a little bit sad that I wouldn't even be able to pretend to participate in it. There was so much to celebrate: getting hitched, moving apartments, Alex's new business, and most importantly, the arrival of our utterly perfect daughter and, with her, that richly apple-fresh feeling of being part of the life all around us and even adding to it. 

Puffy McNoodle, one day old. 

So I'd told my friend Nora, who was having a New Year's party and who was heading back to New York the next day, that I'd try to come by and say hello and see everyone I never get a chance to see but would leave to go home before midnight so that I could actually ring in the new year with my man and (hopefully) slumbering baby.  

Got to spend 5 weeks hanging with my
brilliant dad...

...and my wonderful mom.

Let me tell you how I felt about that plan at about 7pm, when we'd finally dragged our sluggish selves home from the airport and put (tossed?) our totally over-exhausted babe in bed. Yes. That is correct. I was not enthusiastic. 

Thus I was literally overjoyed - my heart burst into confetti, I promise - when, just five minutes after we got home, I peered out of our window and saw on the street below glorious Nora, effervescent Monica and marvellous Thomas, loud and happy and apparently drinking a bottle of champagne. They'd brought the party to US! 

"We thought you might be mad," said Nora, "because of the baby." What hooey. It was effing awesome.  

The only picture I could find that includes all three
New Year's heroes: Monica (far left), Nora (middle) and
Thomas (far right). I LOVE YOU. 

With merry hearts we emptied that bottle of champagne, gold flakes and all, had a whispered (because baby) but nonetheless vigorous catch-up, and finally sent the three merry-makers on their merry way so Nora could make it to her own party. Guys, I love you and you make my life better.  

Some time after they'd gone I heard the baby snuffle in our bedroom where she was sleeping, so I went in with a bottle and slowly drifted off myself. Alex joined us in bed. The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was the clock: 11:45pm. 

Deep in the night Alex poked me awake. "Happy New Year," he said, and gave me and the baby snoring between us a kiss. 

Young McNoodle, five months later. 

"Happy New Year," I said. 

And I swear, guys, it was the best one yet. 

Quickly blog faster! About women

Holy beans, I have access to a computer and the baby is sleeping. Quickly blog faster! I only have a few minutes so I'll keep this post narrow: Women are insane. To be more specific (and, like, fair), what I mean is that some women really lose it around babies.

I've really noticed it walking through the wilds of Gumpendorfer Strasse with the Mouse.
Complete strangers will surreptitiously cross traffic so that they can walk near the baby and peep at her feet. Old ladies rise from their bus seats like Lazarus to peer into the carriage, and young girls come bounding out of the shops where they work to coo and sigh. 

There is much squealing.  It goes like this. Someone will come up and say, "Mei das Putzi ist ja GANZ ein neues, so ein KLEINES *indecipherable cooing*" Still smiling like madonna, they ask, "Und? Wie alt?" (Loose translation: "What a wittle snooky wooky wookems woo. How old is she?")

And I say: "Fast ein Monat." (A month, or whatever). And they squee and clutch their hearts. When I told one woman on the bus that Nava was only six days old the woman actually shrieked and had to clap her hands over her mouth and sit down. Other times real tears come into these ladies' eyes. 

One person I have only met once for five minutes walked right up to us in the street, apologised briefly ("Sorry, ich muss das jetzt sehen -- so SÜSS!"), pulled the child's sock off and then just stood there holding her foot. Another girl was gazing into the carriage when, with no forewarning, she reached in, pulled the sleeping baby's dress up and placed a single finger on her teeny weeny belly button. Then she literally stood there until it started to rain. 

Ickle wickle baby toesies!

It's insane. Worse, I'm almost certain that I'm going to become these women - I, too, am grievously addicted to the smell of fresh baby and the sight of wittle pink toes. 

However. Despite the crazy, its exactly those hormones that make us ladies into sensitive fertility goddesses. 

Now, I'm not saying breeding is our best feature. Women don't need to have kids. Even if they do have kids I suspect that raising those kids is a whole lot more challenging than just bringing them into the world. There are many parts of women that are brilliantly designed to do all kinds of other things, like sneezing and calculus. And we should do them. It is great news for the world that ever more women are shaping religion, politics, science, engineering and other fields previously monopolized by the boys (who did a lovely job most of the time, but also brought us, respectively, holy war, regular war, social darwinism and the bomb). 

Our worthy minds aside, though, girls' bodies are amazing on an esoteric level, and that is especially obvious when it comes to perpetuating the species. Not to brag or anything, but my body isn't just some abstract temple: it's a serious, life-building factory. My magic womb knit an entire person together while the rest of me ate Ben & Jerry's and sobbed at vapid Dove commercials. (By the by, pregnancy really solidified my belief that any person who thinks I shouldn't be the boss of my body can go hump a scroll.) 

Every part of the female organism is linked to every other part, and to the baby, like that jellyfish tree in Avatar. The baby bleats once and you're awake; if you think about the way she smells your breasts leak. When she nurses, your uterus contracts ever closer to its pre-pregnancy size. Many aspects of childbirth and care would physically hurt more but you're flooded with love chemicals. I imagine there is a mixing board in our wombs and before it sits a great mother DJ with her incantations and ivory chopsticks, tweaking our cycles and sleep, our blood and milk. 

The whole system is enough to make you believe in rain dances. Women are fucking awesome. 

So, you know, I guess its okay that strangers come and try to smell my kid's head. It's a side effect of their feminine awesomeness. And anyway, they can usually be scared off with that other essential womanly skill: bitchy resting face.